Danger, With a Side of Luna
by astopperindeath
Summary: Severus Snape has been in dangerous situations before, but none have been as nerve-wracking as this…
1. Chapter 1

"I still don't know why you're here." He hoped the glare he affixed upon her would cause her to leave, but as always, she merely stifled a giggle.

"Oh, Severus, please, that look hasn't worked on me in a decade."

He frowned, continuing through the crowded classroom, wand drawn, eyes scanning for evidence of the supposed boggart hiding in its depths—the entire reason they were here in the first place. The classroom, while not as smoky and perfume filled as in years past, was still cluttered with poufs, pillows, and armchairs clustered around short tables littered with tarot cards, crystal balls, and teacups. Midday sun streamed in through the open windows. At least the Lovegood girl was a far better Seer than Trelawney had ever been… And she drunkenly groped him far less often.

Hermione followed after Snape, wand in hand, scanning the room for any sort of life. The tip of her wand suddenly glowed purple.

"I think it's in the drawer…" She trailed off as she approached Luna's desk, wand pulled back in a defensive pose.

As Snape approached the desk, he couldn't help but wonder why she was here—why Luna asked for both of them to attend to the simple removal of a boggart.

"I wonder why Luna wanted me here."

Her question broke through his reverie, and not for the first time, he wondered if she was a Legilimens, as that question had been haunting his mind since Miss Lovegood's request.

"Probably to keep you from doing something to ruin the room's natural feng shui," she sniggered, in a manner unbecoming her age, Snape thought.

"Hush, Granger. On the count of three…"

They both held their breath, and Snape idly wondered what her darkest fear would be.

"One… Two… Three!" He blasted the drawer with too much energy; it hung off its rails and smoke poured forth.

A boggart, however, did not.

He swore vehemently, and Hermione jumped, not quite expecting the vitriol.

"There must be something here, though. My wand would not lie!" she asserted, a look of frustration passing over her face.

He was instantly in a terrible mood, feeling like Miss Lovegood had set him up for humiliation.

"Oh, really? Fine, then. Is it this?" He jabbed his wand just past her head, and a teacup exploded. "Or this?" A crystal ball was reduced to fairy dust. "Is your deepest fear seeing your life play out in a crystal ball?" As he went to attack the stack of papers perched on the desk, his wand lurched from his hand, zooming to her outstretched palm.

He stared at her, mouth open, gobsmacked. "What? But—How dare… Who do you th—"

Hermione grinned at him. "You'll get it back when you can stop blowing up things that do not belong to you. Now help me look through this room. Something is in here, but I think Luna was wrong about it being a boggart."

She stared at him pointedly until he began rifling through the materials on Luna's desk. Placing both of their wands on a chair in what he assumed was a sign of goodwill and trust, she moved to the bookcase.

"Oh, dear, Luna's taste in books is about as good as her taste in jewelry," she groused as she perused the shelves.

He found it more and more difficult to concentrate on the desk as he watched her. As she stretched to pass her hand over the volumes, the back of her shirt raised, showing the smallest expanse of her lower back.

And so her squeal of delight completely took him off guard.

"Severus, do you remember these?"

A gleeful, child-like grin graced her face. Cradled in her hands was a dusty, slightly bent-up Slinky. She walked towards him, nearly skipping from excitement, the Slinky slipping between her hands with that oh-so-familiar whispering sound.

"Do calm down, Granger. Remember yourself." She was getting closer, and he just knew she would attack him with the toy.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you don't want to _play_ with it!" She thrust the spring towards him, looking up expectantly. With a sigh, he held his hand out, hoping the look on his face passed on the appropriate level of disdain—even if a secret part of him really did want to take the toy from her hand.

Holding the Slinky at one end in her palm, she tipped it so the other end arched into his hand. Before he could respond, he felt a familiar tug behind his navel. Followed by the sounds of her sudden shriek.

They tumbled through space, hands clenched tightly around the coil.

"What did you do?" she screamed at him.

"Nothing!"

"Well, you must have done something," she insisted. "We were fine when it was just me holding it!"

"Yes, but remember, you took my wand. Clearly _I_ have _done_ nothing."

The look on her face told him she realized he had a fair point. He had to keep focused on her face—the swirling around them was beginning to make him nauseated. He wondered how long it would take for them to land.

The swirling began to go foggy, and suddenly, he could see nothing but her surrounded by white mist. They both slammed into the ground, painfully hard under his body, and his sight went black.

He regained consciousness, lying on a marble floor, that same mist swirling around his body. He rolled to his side, hoping to find Hermione in one piece.

He found her curled on her side, the Slinky off to the side, bent, mangled beyond repair. Her hair was starting to stick to her forehead, her clothes were… missing.

Yes, missing.

She lay there, clad only in her bra and knickers. For the first time, he looked down and realized he was stripped down to his black boxer-briefs. Yes, black.

_Fuck_.

Decidedly not enough fabric to cover his response to seeing her in such a state of undress.

He could see her eyes begin to move under her lids and her forehead crinkle in pain. Quickly, he scrambled to her side, hands and knees sliding on the slick marble. _Why in God's name is it so steamy? Where the fuck are we?_

Hoping she wouldn't smack him out of fear, he began passing his hands over her limbs, looking for breaks or bruises. She yelped when his hands hit her ankle, her eyes flying wide with confusion.

"Where are we? Where are your clothes?" A quick glance down. "Where are _my_ clothes? Why are you touching me?" Her eyes darted from his to their surroundings and back in panic. She made to pull away and winced, his hand still cradled around her ankle.

"I don't think it's broken. Just sprained." His fingers prodded and poked, and he watched as she chewed on her bottom lip, stifling her pain.

"Well, you would know. You're the Healer." She smiled, her teeth still slightly clenched in pain. "Oh wait, no, that's me."

He simply raised an eyebrow, murmuring healing spells as he caressed her ankle.

"That spell only works with a wand, Severus…"

A wand.

But their wands were back…

"Fuck!" they exclaimed in unison.

A door creaking open echoed throughout the chamber, but the steam caused so much disorientation that they could not figure out which way to turn. Snape scrambled to stand, turning in circles to try to find whatever was coming.

Through the mists, a figure approached, hurrying towards them with a look of concern on her face, a bundle of fabric in her arms.

"Oh, dear," the woman said with a heavy French accent. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. No, no, no, you're not supposed to be here. No, not at all. You're to be in the lobby, yes. Here." She thrust the bundle towards them—bathrobes.

Hermione struggled to her feet, and Severus watched as her face pinched in pain.

"Exactly where are we?" Hermione said, leaning against him to keep her balance. He was more than aware of her skin under his hands as he helped her put on her robe.

"Why La Beauté Extérieure Weekend Resort and Spa, of course. Your appointments have been on the books for weeks!"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "What?"

The attendant seemed not to have heard them. "Follow me!"

* * *

This was originally written for the awesome ayerf for the Winter 2012 SSHG Exchange on Livejournal. Thank you so much to ayerf for her fun prompts! See the end of chapter 4 for the original prompt.


	2. Chapter 2

"What did you do, Hermione?"

"I don't know what you mean, Severus. As if I planned this."

Hermione and Severus walked as quickly as they could, given Hermione's ankle, behind the woman leading them through the spa.

"Then how did we come to have reservations in our names?"

"Goddammit…" Hermione trailed off, clearly coming to some realization.

"Granger?" His voice took on that edge he normally reserved for students, and he couldn't bring himself to care. "What do you know?"

She looked evasive. "Nothing. But I suppose if Luna wanted us to both take care of that boggart, there must be some connection to this and her…"

They made it to the lobby, and it became abundantly clear this was a Muggle establishment – slick, metallic-cased computers, signs for Visa and MasterCard on the door. What could Lovegood have been thinking?

The woman who had led them turned toward them. "I'll leave you with Michel now. He will be in charge of your stay with us."

"Stay?" Hermione yelped. "How long are we to be here?"

"You have reserved the two-day package, Miss Granger. Are you feeling quite well? How is it you have forgotten your reservations."

Hermione glared. "I have no idea."

The woman walked away, looking puzzled.

The man who must be Michel approached them. "Hello! Let me escort you to your rooms. We apologize for your troubles. How did you find yourself in the steam room without your clothes?

Severus couldn't take much more of this. "I have no bloody idea. We're not even supposed to be here!"

Michel smiled knowingly, as if he had heard many men dragged here with their partners say that many times before.

"Anyway, come with me. Here are your schedules." He thrust a folder into each of their hands. "Your first appointment is in thirty minutes, so if you would like, freshen up and meet me back in the lobby then."

They approached a door with a keycard entry. "Your cards are in your folders. We'll see you in a bit!" Michel walked away before they could demand any more information from him.

Hermione opened the door, and Severus rudely stormed past her, throwing his folder onto the desk before locking himself in the bathroom.

A spa? Really? Two days of close quarters with Hermione with no wand… in _France_? He hadn't even looked to see if the room had one bed or two. What could that Lovegood girl possibly be thinking?

_You know exactly what she's thinking, old man. You had hoped that one night of drinking had left her blackout drunk, but she clearly remembered your whinging about wanting to impress Hermione and how maybe you just needed to figure out a way to get her away for a few days…_

"Are you okay, Severus?" he heard her call through the door.

"Fine!" he barked out, turning on the shower. Five minutes under a cold spray ought to solve most of his problems.

He emerged from the bathroom with about ten minutes to spare to find Hermione lying prone on the bed (_the_ bed, singular), feet kicking in the air, chin in hand, perusing their schedules.

"It looks like we have massages first, followed by hair and nails…"

"You seem to have resigned yourself to this quite quickly, Hermione."

"Well, I believe we have no way of returning. I assume Luna will eventually rescue us when she finds our wands and realizes we may have no way home. Might as well enjoy what someone else is paying for!"

Snape groaned. "Nails, though?" He couldn't even imagine what that could mean for him.

She grinned. "Don't worry, I'm sure all they'll do is just trim and buff yours. Though some black nail polish may help with that tall, dark, and mysterious thing you've been trying to make work…"

_Cheeky…_

They lay parallel to each other on massage tables, divested of clothing under what he thought to be a gratuitously thin sheet. He really tried not to think about it. He was relieved to find his masseur was a man. He did not even want to contemplate how much worse this would be if a woman were rubbing the knots from his back and shoulders as he lay there thinking of Hermione.

Hermione's masseur was also male, and he found himself both jealous and annoyed, wondering if Hermione was enjoying this far too much.

He tried to relax—it had been decades since anyone had bothered to try to relieve the tension he constantly carried in his muscles, and he had to admit he might have to find access to this during the school year. If only Hermione…

A moan brought him abruptly from his reverie. His body tensed, ruining all the masseur's work as he listened.

Another moan. "Oh, God, right there." A third moan of pleasure…

He attempted to lift his head to find out what the devil was happening to Hermione, but his masseur pushed his head back down.

"She's fine. Some people just get more vocal as we work."

_Great, that's just what I need – to listen to another man bring Hermione pleasure…_

The torment didn't stop. Hermione's response became a little louder, and it was clear she had forgotten he was even there. Severus was relieved he was laying facedown; the sheet covering him would do nothing to cover his latest erection (this was getting ridiculous) if he were supine.

"Roll over."

_Bugger_

"Um, no, I'm fine…"

He felt the masseur's breath on his ear. "Don't worry," he whispered. "She's too far gone to notice…"

How the fucker knew, he had no idea. He rolled over, horrified. He'd faced down Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, the Marauders, Muggle bobbies, and his least favorite, _flight attendants_, and nothing had terrified him more than this spa.

The spa truly was dangerous. Constantly being nearly naked around Hermione was bound to end poorly. And they expected him next to _cut his hair_. He had had the same hair style since 1978, and it _worked_ for him. He had seen something on the schedule about mud masks and acupuncture, and he was pretty sure he wouldn't make it past this massage.

_Think about Hagrid. Think about Umbridge naked. _It was starting to work. i_Think about Remus Lupin. _His erection came back suddenly. _Fucking A. Think about cold weather; think about Percy Weasley in a Speedo_

Combined with the masseur's ministrations, his thoughts calmed him down. A soft buzzer began to sound, signaling the end of their session. A screen lowered between them, and he donned his robe. He could see the outline of her form through the screen, and his problems began anew.

_Damn you, Lovegood_…

center~~ ~~/center

He found himself in quite a comfortable reclining chair, still clad only in a ridiculous terrycloth robe, his feet currently being manhandled, his hair tied back from his face in a low queue. Luckily, he couldn't see anything, as he was currently sporting cucumber slices on his eyes. Some sort of green mud was slathered on his face, and as soon as he saw Lovegood, he would demand to know why he had been subjected to such barbarism. The attendants had told him that mud from the Dead Sea was quite good for his skin. He supposed he was happy, at least, that given the mud _was_ from the Dead Sea, he didn't currently have fish feces spread all over his face.

The trimming and buffing of his toenails was beginning to annoy him. They had finished with his hands earlier, yet no one but himself had touched his feet in who knew how many years. He heard the nail clippers clack onto a surface and figured his current torture was over.

Until smaller hands moved his feet into their lap and began massaging the arch of his foot, thumbs digging in slightly, sliding up to his toes. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair; he had not been expecting this, and it felt good, damned good.

The hands moved from one foot to the other, and he melted, feeling as gooey as the mud on his face.

"I don't think I've seen you look this relaxed, Severus."

_Hermione?_

He ripped the cucumber slices from his eyes, tossing them to the side. And to be sure, there she was, his foot resting on her thighs, her hands still working their magic, a mischievous grin on her face.

"Though I must say, the green look works for you. It really highlights your nose. Say 'I'll get you, my little pretty!'" she dared.

_Oh, I shall get you, my little pretty. I certainly shall._

He tipped his head back into the cushion of the chair and closed his eyes. "Soldier on, Granger. I believe the other foot could use a bit more work."

And, surprisingly, she continued.

* * *

AN: Couldn't resist a Wizard of Oz joke…


	3. Chapter 3

While they hadn't had a formal meal since they had arrived, there had been nibbles all afternoon. He'd just finished a plate of fruit and cheeses when he was ushered to the hair salon.

Faster than he would have liked, he found himself in a chair, a horrible plastic tarpaulin tied around his neck. He was faced with a young, female stylist who looked far too eager to have at his head. She stood behind him, one hand clutching a pair of scissors, the other tangling her fingers through his hair, which was still pulled back from his facial.

"Would you like to donate your hair to wigmakers, Mr. Snape?"

"What? People even do that? Just how much of my hair do you think you're going to cut off?"

With his hair pulled back, he was being forced to stare at his own face in the mirror. Quite a bit more lined than in years past, but less harsh and angular. He was still thin, but even he thought he looked better than the old days, like someone had made a point to make him eat on a daily basis.

"Oh, about this much!" the giggling hairdresser announced and, grasping firmly at his queue, cut through his hair just above the tie with what must have been the sharpest pair of scissors imaginable. In her hand, now, was at least 11 inches of grey-streaked sable hair.

He felt as if his arm had been sliced off. Yes, he had let it get a little long lately, but he hadn't had his hair short in years… hadn't felt air whisper over his neck…

_Damn, it tickles_.

"So is that a yes for donation, Mr. Snape?"

"Fine!" They were Muggles, and he very much doubted _any_ wizards much cared about using his spare body parts for potions ingredients these days.

She giggled _again_ and spun his chair around. "Now, now, we can't have you seeing the new you until the very end! Close your eyes; I'm going to be doing quite a lot of work in the front, and I don't want you getting hair into those big brown eyes!"

Snape surmised that this woman and Dumbledore must be related; only Albus could ever be quite this saccharine and perky and yet still make him miserable.

The snip, snip of the scissors was hypnotic, and the stylist mercifully quiet as she got to work.

After quite a bit of time, punctuated by his stylist nudging his head forward, backward, and sideways, he felt the chair spin once again.

"Okay," she announced, "open your eyes!"

He peeked one eye open first, then the other and was immediately flabbergasted.

His hair, parted off center for the first time since last he went to church with his dad (1969?), fell across his forehead. He had not realized just how much grey was in his hair, but now his head looked positively streaky, bits of black and grey and silver marbled together. She had put something in it to make it stick up a bit in a style quite like his seventh-years'. The sideburns, kept rather long, highlighted the angles of his cheeks rather than making him look completely ridiculous.

He felt vulnerable with so much of his face on display, the creases at the corners of his eyes no longer hidden by curtains of hair, his ears just hanging out for all to see.

He had lost all his gravitas. He had seen similar hairstyles in the glossy magazines his female students perused in the common room. "Hairporn," they often said, drooling over pictures of movie and telly stars. All of his authority currently rested on the floor of the salon.

"I suppose," he swallowed, searching for the words, "I should thank you…"

"Violette, sir."

"Violette."

He was back to having to wash his hair every day. Monthly visits to Hogsmeade to get trims… unless he grew it back out…

"Don't you dare, Severus."

Hermione came into view from around the corner.

"Dare what?"

"Grow it back out. You look smashing."

And so did she. Most of the bulk had been cut from her hair, which now graced her shoulders, a soft fringe angling across her forehead, her curls bouncier than ever. One of the locks whispered across her collarbone, peeking out of the collar of the robe. He wondered how she would respond if…

"Are you quite alright?"

He sighed. "Quite."

During their interaction, Violette had procured a dustpan and broom. "You'll want to take a shower, sir. You've got bits of hair everywhere. Just try not to mess up your hair. It's the nicest it will look, as I assume you have no experience with styling products. And tucking a tin labeled "pommade" in his hand, she ushered them toward the elevator.

It was nearing nine p.m., and without a full meal since lunch, he was ravenous. And if Luna were truly paying for all of this, he would make her suffer. Steak, lobster, caviar… Whatever the most expensive items on the menu were, he would be ordering them all.

Hermione fished their room key from her robe pocket and opened the door. Elaborately set up in the room was a romantic dinner for two, the contents of which were hiding under large silver plate covers. A decanted bottle of red wine sat on the edge of the table. Various desserts were arranged on a side table along with a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket.

It was too much.

"Buggering bugger, bugger-fucking what the—FUCK!"

Hermione's eyes widened in response to his ridiculously juvenile outburst. "Severus, it's just dinner!"

"All I wanted was to come up here, order something obscenely decadent to punish Lovegood for this hellish weekend, and get in the shower to remove all this hair off my shoulders and neck. I'm _itchy!_"

Yes, he was being petulant and sulky. No, he really didn't care. His arms, crossed over his chest, were more indicative of a pouting child than a brooding man, and he couldn't bring himself to stop.

And of course, the damnable witch looked up at him with an amused smirk.

"Severus, get in the shower. Get un-itchy. Find some clothes. By the time you've finished, I'll have poured this wine, and we'll both get properly sloshed. We may be stuck here together, but dammit, I'm going to enjoy my time off."

Somehow in her little speech, she had gotten close, far too close, her hands undoing the tie of his robe. She had pushed the robe off his shoulders, and it lay pooled at his feet.

"Now," her hands found his shoulders once again, spinning him, "off to the shower with you, then." And as he walked away, she playfully smacked his ass.

He spun back abruptly. "Granger…," he growled.

"Hurry up; I'm famished!" She turned and walked toward the table, and in spite of the voluminous robe, he was still able to watch her arse sway as she moved.

These cold showers were beginning to get annoying.

When he returned, she was seated at the table, legs crossed at the knee, in a short pinkish negligee, showing off most of the length of her legs and cut dangerously low.

"It was either this or nothing, so quit your drooling, Snape."

His options hadn't been much better. Silken pants in a variety of colors. He'd picked red just to throw her off. He didn't mind noticing that she seemed just as drawn to his chest as he was to hers.

"Was nothing an option? Because if so…" He tucked his thumb in the waistband and looked at her daringly, hoping she would show the courage and madness he'd seen glimpses of all day.

"Don't start something you won't finish..." Her eyes flicked away from his face, but did he see hope there? "Sit down, and let's see what Luna has planned for us."

He removed the cover from his meal, steam rising and hitting him in the nose.

He looked down at a plate of steak, lobster (_How had Luna known? Oh, right, Seer._) and seasonal vegetables. Hermione seemed equally happy with her food, some sort of pasta with cream sauce, filled with vegetables. He knew she had a weak spot for pasta. It seemed Luna did, too.

He looked up to find her smiling, her glass raised. Quirking an eyebrow, he raised his as well.

"To years of hiding from this exact moment," she said, smiling, before clinking her glass with his.

Afraid that he was still managing to interpret her words incorrectly, he simply nodded before sipping his wine. She probably just meant getting him to get a haircut.

They ate their meal in companionable silence. He wondered what she was thinking but did not feel comfortable pressing, keeping his eyes fixed to his plate. The wine slowly drained from the decanter, and her cheeks became flush. He felt it was particularly warm in the room as well.

"Severus?" Her voice cut through his reverie.

"Yes?"

"You do realize you may have to fight me for that cheesecake."

He pulled a face he hoped would translate as wounded. "My dear, you should know by now I _never_ enter fights I have no chance of winning."

She giggled, and he smiled before rising and walking to the dessert table. He reached for the bottle of champagne and turned to her as he opened it. Her eyes moved to his biceps, of course in plain view (_Damn this lack of clothing!_) as he held the cork and twisted the bottle.

"I always have, you know."

He was shocked. "Have what?"

"Liked the view. Though, I can honestly say not as much before now." She stuck out her hand, demanding a flute, and he acquiesced. How could he not?

He procured both of their desserts, the second flute tucked under his arm. She had stacked their dinner things to one side of the table, and he placed the cheesecake in front of her. A curl had fallen across her eye, and it was almost more than he could bear to not tuck it behind her ear.

Wine, proximity, and so much visible skin was making him far more vulnerable than he liked. This spa was terrifying him in ways he didn't know he could still be frightened. For once, it wasn't fear of bodily harm; it was fear of rejection.

_Damn you, Lovegood._

He poured himself a glass of champagne as he watched her. She looked far too pleased with her choice of pudding, savoring each bite in such a way that he could not look away from her lips.

"Granger—"

"You're going to have to call me Hermione one of these days, you know. I'm pretty sure sitting half-starkers in front of each other, generally speaking, classifies as the appropriate day."

He hesitated. "Hermione, then. Why do you think we're here?"

Without Veritaserum, which at this point, he would not be above using had he had it in his pocket, he had to hope three glasses of wine and a glass of champagne would be the right amount of liquid courage to get her to talk. He hadn't missed that guilty look on her face when he had first arrived, and he knew she was hiding something.

"Because Luna has a wicked sense of humor," she said without pause.

"I don't understand."

"I may have made a comment at the last staff mixer that it would take a day at a spa and a complete makeover to make you realize that I was the only appropriately aged person at Hogwarts for you and that I was sick of you not asking me to dance."

"To dance?"

"Yes, Severus. I like dancing."

Not the answer he had been expecting, or hoping for, but it would suffice.

"I like dancing too," he said, pausing for a sip of champagne. "And it didn't take today to make me notice you."

She smiled. "Good." She drained her second glass. "Now, I do believe it is time for me to brush my teeth and go to bed. I do apologize in advance for the Medusa-curls in the morning."

As she walked to the bathroom, he gasped. Bed. He'd quite forgotten about that part.

When she returned, he was seated at the head of the bed on top of the blankets, arms crossed across his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. Her side of the bed was turned down, a buffer zone of pillows down the center. As soon as she fell asleep, he would perform his nightly ablutions and try to sleep.

_Was that a look of disappointment that crossed her face?_

She clicked off the light and slipped between the sheets, facing him, spooning one of the pillows.

"Bathroom's yours. They have cinnamon toothpaste. I quite like it."

Damn, she'd seen right through his plan. He made his way to the bathroom slowly, hoping not to trip on anything in the darkened room.

He brushed his teeth and waited in the bathroom for about twenty minutes, hoping it would be long enough for the wine to lull her to sleep. His eyes, better acclimated to the dark, saw her curled up under the blankets, her head covered by sheets, the line of pillows bifurcating the bed.

Careful not to wake her, and musing that this was a rather crap way to spend the night in the same bed with another person, he slowly laid down, curled on his side away from her, careful not to even touch the pillows.

"You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily," she murmured in his ear sleepily.

The tricky woman had switched places with the pillows and now spooned her body behind his, her hand drifting up his stomach to rest on his sternum. And resigning himself to his fate, he leaned back into her warmth and covered her hand with his own.


	4. Chapter 4

He hadn't woken up with hair tickling his nose that wasn't his own in a long time. Sometime in the night, he had rolled over, and she now had her head buried in his chest, his arms wound around her tightly, their legs entangled. Something had shifted in their relationship the day before; he wasn't sure when it had happened, but he could have never predicted this yesterday morning. He pulled her closer and buried his nose in her hair, detecting the scent of coconuts.

His hair must have looked a fright this morning, but he found himself not caring much. He hoped it would take her a while to wake up so he could savor this moment before it invariably went pear shaped.

A sudden banging at the door woke her up abruptly, and trapped in his embrace, she yelped, disoriented and confused.

"Wait here," he whispered, before leaving the bed. He threw the door open angrily, planning to kill whomever was on the other side of the door.

Luna.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you didn't have your wands until this morning! I feel so terrible. Here you go. Just tap the Portkey when you want to come home." Luna looked completely disheveled, still in her nightclothes.

"The Portkey was damaged when we arrived," he growled.

"Oh, well, you're only in Calais. Just Apparate back to London and grab the Floo home. And good luck," she responded, giving him a cheeky wink.

And before he could scream at her, she Disapparated.

He reentered the room, slamming the door shut. A daft witch knocking on the door ruined the entire morning he had planned out all night.

"Everything okay?" he heard her call out.

Returning to the main room, he threw their wands down on the bedside table.

"Yes, everything is 'okay.' As you can see," he indicated to the wands, "we are no longer trapped here."

He slammed his way into the bathroom and grabbed his robe. "And now, if you will excuse me…" He quickly Transfigured the robe into a shirt, the pants into trousers.

"Oh, and just so you know, we're in Calais." He didn't even look at her, not wanting her to see his anger and disappointment. Instead, he Disapparated to Knockturn Alley, knowing she would not follow him there.

_Six weeks later_

They had not spoken of their trip to France since they had returned. Snape had done everything he could to avoid her, though required common meals and staff meetings had made that quite difficult. Of course, the entire student body had noticed their respective haircuts that Monday and rumors had spread like Fiendfyre. Rumors, which he wished were true, that only made things worse through their inaccuracy.

And now he was faced with another long, solitary weekend. He knew this avoidant behavior was less than brave, but he had spent many a weekend here in years past, avoiding everyone.

It was far more difficult than the old days. In the last years, he had mainly spent his time in the staff room, hoping she would come to read or commiserate with the staff on having to read atrocious essays (she had had plenty of experience in that with Harry and Ron, she would quip). They had shared so many cups of tea and conversations, but now, that had been completely ruined. And he was frustrated by how much he missed their unplanned weekends together.

Was he stubborn? Absolutely. He hadn't got this far without a constant bullheadedness, and he would not cave simply because she now knew how he felt.

_She does know now, right? _She had to. When had he ever acted in such a way around her or anyone else she knew? The smartest witch of her age, she better damned well have got the message.

And yet it seemed she hadn't. She had made no attempt to reach out to him since they had got back, not even the Sunday night they returned. He had known when he returned to Hogwarts, stumbling drunk from making his way through every pub in Knockturn Alley, that she had returned; his connections to the wards from his wayward days as Headmaster still kept him keyed into certain details, including which staff members were present. She hadn't come then, and she hadn't come since.

Six weeks was a long time to think. He had had a hard time remembering when he had come to care so much about his colleague. It hadn't been directly after she had returned, twenty-six and fresh out of nursing school. She had gone straight through to achieve her master of magical nursing without pause, always with the goal of returning to Hogwarts.

He had avoided her, painstakingly, when she had arrived, the first of her classmates to return to Hogwarts to join the staff. He had expected the same nagging, overachiever of old, and frankly six years of that had been quite enough, thank you.

An accident during NEWT-level Potions had left his arm quite badly burned, and the only Burn Paste in the entire castle was in the Hospital Wing.

When she acted completely professionally, amiably chatting about how he'd hurt himself and refraining from pointing it out it was quite ridiculous that the Potions master did not have the proper treatment already made in his laboratory, he decided maybe she was worth his time. Part of her education must have included preparing medical potions, and at least he'd have someone to talk to. Loneliness got old after a while, even for him.

He did not imagine she would come to mean the world to him over the next decade. It was maybe seven years ago that he realized he regarded her as friend, another two before the comprehension dawned that he might very well love her. Three more before he invited her to his rooms for coffee. The last two years had been a cat and mouse game that he had lately grown sick of. The weekend in Calais had forced his hand, and now, rejected, he hid in his rooms licking his wounds.

He lay on his sofa, propped up against the arm, his legs stretched out across its length. He ran a hand through his hair, still not quite used to its length. He found the new ways of styling it quite helpful – the pommade protected his hair from most potion fumes, and his bad habit of fiddling with it only made it look messy. He could see why the Potters preferred the look—it did make life easier. Though the looks from some of his older female (and, to be honest, male) students did make him quite uneasy.

A knock at the door startled him, and he patently ignored it. Nothing good could come from an 8 a.m. knock on a Saturday. Let whichever student needed him go find a prefect.

The knock came again, more insistent and determined. He swore before rising and grabbing his wand, hoping his hexing skills had not atrophied since the war.

He nearly dropped his wand when he threw the door open and saw her standing there. Before he could say anything, she pushed her way through, dropping her robes on a chair and standing before him, beautifully attired in a simple dress and heels, her wild hair framing her face.

"What do you want, Hermione?"

"You, sweetie, need a haircut. Those sideburns are getting positively ridiculous. Now, go put on some nice clothes. We're going out."

After weeks of not caring, not showing up, she was here, making demands and bossing him around. And as much as he wanted to hope, maybe he was reading this all wrong. His ability to read her completely failed him, and he stood there, dumbly.

"Do you need help? Fine, let me choose something for you." She turned and walked toward his bedroom. He ran after her to stop her. He couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed her wrist and turned her around abruptly.

"Why are you here?"

"Because, after working beside you for ten years, it took Luna bloody Lovegood to make you start realizing that maybe, just maybe, you could make me happy. And instead of pursuing that, you've been hiding from me for weeks. I'm not waiting another ten years for you, Severus Snape. So, go put on some nice clothes, and let's go!"

"Go? Go where?"

"Well, first to get you a haircut, of course. Then, who cares?"

He knew he looked like an idiot. For once, caustic words weren't easily pouring forth from his mouth, easily pushing her away. That blasted Seer had put him in more dangerous positions in the preceding weeks than he had been since the war, and he was going to have words with her if he survived this conversation.

He had to say something. She was looking rather expectant, and he couldn't just keep standing there holding her wrist. It was quite awkward.

"You had mentioned something about dancing…"

"Indeed I had. Now," she abruptly rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, "don't make me go in there with you and get you into some more appropriate clothes!" She winked before crossing to a chair and sitting quite regally, imperiously smirking up at him, an eyebrow arched.

And so he did as he was bid.

* * *

Original Prompt (I went a little off track, but hey, mostly UST, right?):

_An illegal Portkey results in Hermione being stranded, wandless (for the purposes of this prompt, Apparition needs one's wand on oneself, even if not held at the time…). A prank gone wrong? Or something more sinister? The good news: she's not alone. Snape tagged along for the ride (was he trying to help her, or was he in the wrong place at the wrong time?). The bad news: he's also wandless. The really bad news: he's in understandably foul mood. And worse, they're now trapped in a dangerous place, as the Portkey vanished/broke on arrival._

_Where are they? A forest, maybe the Forbidden Forest, and Hogwarts within reach if they can survive at full moon with werewolves on their tail? Inside a labyrinth, with monsters prowling the corridors? In Azkaban, with the Dementors and prisoners to contend with? The Isle of Drear with the man-eating Quintapeds (see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them)? A dragon's nest? The depths of Gringotts?_

_Do Snape and Hermione have a secret relationship? If not, UST, please._

Ayerf – I do hope you enjoyed this. I know I went off in left field a bit, but I hope I kept true to the spirit of your prompt. I really enjoyed writing for you!

Thank you so much to my wonderful anonymous betas, who helped me whip this into shape!


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